like fire and powder, which as they kiss consume
by Zolicutio
Summary: Mercutio considers Tybalt, as a lover and as an enemy. [Budapesti Operettszínház canon, proshot version; x-posted from AO3]


_"These violent delights have violent ends  
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,  
Which as they kiss consume: the sweetest honey  
Is loathsome in his own deliciousness  
And in the taste confounds the appetite:  
Therefore love moderately; long love doth so;  
Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow."_

* * *

He is not gentle in the way that he touches you. His hands are rough against your skin, here pressing too hard, here gripping too tight - but he has always been less graceful than you and unaccustomed to gentility, so you let it be. If he leaves bruises on your skin, what of it? It's not as though he never has before, though not quite like this. No one else need know they are there, in any case. They are yours to keep and to cherish, memories of this time together, the first but likely also the last. You hope it is not so, but you are too proud to ask him to stay, so you hold him now while you can. You gasp his name as he enters you; your head is thrown back, throat exposed. He could slit it open with one dagger while the other is buried deep within, but he does not. Instead, he pressed his mouth to your Adam's apple in clumsy, sloppy kisses poorly-timed with his ungentle thrusts. He is all passion and little finesse, and though the angle is slightly uncomfortable, you bear it. Your prick is trapped between your bodies, the friction more pain than pleasure - and he stops, as if he can feel your discomfort through your skin.

_Why have you stopped, my cat-prince?_ you ask, honestly confused for once, rather than simply playing coy. The look he gives you is strange, unreadable; he pulls away from you and out. You sit up to pursue, but a hand forestalls.

_It's not right,_ he replies slowly. The tilt of your head prompts an explanation. He adds: _You lie there like a doll, while I -_ He doesn't finish, or perhaps can't, and you cannot help but smile at his inept tongue. You've never known him to be considerate, but then, you've only ever known him as an enemy. There is much to discover in this short time which you have been allotted. This time, he does not stop you from coming closer. He allows your mouth to seal over his, though he is in no way complacent as he returns kiss for kiss. When you have had enough, you start to arrange your bodies. (You do so cautiously at first, for you are uncertain how he will take to being moved. Alas, your fears are unfounded: he allows it.) Soon, he is in your place and you in his, yourself kneeling between his parted thighs. You find this new agreeability quite the lark, for he has been with many women (as have you), and rumour told he was not kind with them. More than that, it has ever been in his nature to fight you at every turn. You reward him with another kiss and a brief squeeze to his prick.

_There's a good kitten. So well-behaved._ You laugh as he swipes at you, cat-like even then, and duck for another kiss. It distracts him enough that he doesn't seem to notice while you prepare yourself. It makes his deep moan all the sweeter as you lower onto him. You aren't gentle, not with him or with yourself, as you bear down, but you've found that a little roughness has always improved the taste of a man. You don't ask him if he's ready before you start to move, and you can see by the way his eyelids flutter and his mouth drops open that you've judged him correctly. The laughter that begins in your throat dies, for now you've angled yourself properly. He starts thrusting up to meet you, and in doing so hits a place deep within that makes you dig your fingers into his skin and yowl like the cat you always call him - but the irony is lost in the whiteness behind your eyes. You moan his name; he rasps yours.

You continue like this for what feels like hours. Eventually he turns you over, enlightened by your tutelage, and takes you from behind. A cat mounting a fox. (You would laugh, but all sound is swallowed by moans and his name and _yes, please, faster, more._) He does not mock you for coming first, though he does take note of your silence after.

_Simply basking, my dear Tybalt,_ you explain when he asks you - embarrassingly - if the cat has got your tongue. _But if the cat desires my tongue again, I shall be more than happy to oblige him._ He looks momentarily confused (and the rarity of this openness does not pass you by unnoticed), but he understands quickly enough and meets your lips halfway. It is languid, and unlike the rest it is almost gentle. You cannot have this; you fear you might fall in love if he is kind, and you _cannot have this_ - so you bite. A little of his blood is on your lip, and you lick it away with a toothy grin while his expression morphs into something a little like betrayal. He curses you soundly and stands to dress while you lie smirking, watching him with terrible satisfaction that leaves you feeling strangely sick inside. He will not return, this you know, and perhaps it is for the best.

* * *

When you meet again, you mock him. He is not looking for you, but you force him to see you with barbed, unkind words. His eyes burn with fury, yours gleam with ridicule. You cannot have him but you can destroy him, or let him destroy you. It's almost the same. You dance around him, spitting vitriol and stoking the fire of his hatred for you. You laugh, though it is hollow. He chases you through the streets with death threats echoing all around; it is delightful. You remain heedless of all the others watching you, not daring to do anything but stare. Romeo drags him away, but only briefly: you do not hesitate to remind him of your presence.

You are so close now that you can smell him. Sweat and blood and bitter medicine all commingled. You reach out for one last touch, and if you want him to believe you're taunting him, it's a lie you let yourself have. He shakes you off and breaks away; you challenge him at the same time the knife gleams in your vision. Fear and anticipation stir at the back of your throat, but you're confident. He would never.

But of course Romeo comes between you; he's always been clumsy. You know the blade was not meant to hit home, because you see it in his eyes. Fear, confusion. His knife in your breast does not hurt: what hurts is that he runs. Without so much as a word, he leaves you to your death. Blood chokes you and keeps you from calling, but you would not have called anyway.

He will not return, this you know, and perhaps it is for the best.

(He does, but you do not see. You do not see anything anymore.)


End file.
